Harry Potter and the Serpent's Eye
by Rain Darkwood
Summary: Harry Potter goes into his 6th year of Hogwarts feeling depressed and without a path...new teacher, failing health of Albus Dumbledore, and the second war begins. More summary inside (Chapter 1 up) R
1. Prologue

**Harry Potter and Serpent's Eye**  
  
by Rain Darkwood  
  
This is my second fic, and my first Harry Potter fic. Pretty ambitious, eh? Well, here we go. You should know the drill by now. I don't own anything having to do with Harry Potter. Jk Rowling does. Seriously. Just the content of this story I own, kinda. Read on!  
  
**Summary:  
**  
Harry begins his 6th year at Hogwarts with a depressing start. He feels he has no set path, no way to know where to go...and the failing health of Albus Dumbledore, Harry's mentor and father figure, only adds to his stack of worries. Soon he finds he'll have new worries to contend with, like a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, who isn't the only new teacher... the beginning of the second war.... and a taste of life the way it was during Voldemort's reign of terror, 16 years before.  
  
**Prologue**  
  
He sat sweating in the cell, his thick straw-colored hair now limp and dirty, falling wetly against his forehead. A bar covered window provided the only light into the dank and smelly room, which contained no more than a bed and toilet. Images swarmed his mind as he stared wearily at the floor of cracked and moldy stone. A woman and a child... their image as fresh as water from a brook...they laughed as the woman read a child's story, the child giggling in her bed. The memory was sharp, as most are when in the vicinity of a dementor. He found it hard to remember where he was, these memories flooded him and drowned him, he felt as if he were choking, gasping for breath as he struggled to recall more. But all that came to him was the woman and her child. I know them, he thought, as he struggled with himself, his back stiffening and his neck hairs bristling. He could not recall their names...but he knew that he loved them very much. The term was what he could remember, what he struggled to recall. There was a phrase for how he felt for them, what they were to them...a relation of sorts... The pain in his mind was unbearable.   
  
My wife. He cried out the word to himself, under his breath and weak but with as much exertion as it was possible to release it with. She is my wife! That is my daughter! He gasped, throwing his body back down on his bed, and arching his back. He struggled for breath like one who has just come out of a deep dive. Sweat stood out on his forehead and his eyes widened, opening fully for the first time in weeks. He could even remember what happened to them... 17 years ago... there was a fire... Death Eaters everywhere... he was gone, at his job far away... they were killed, the whole village...he came home to find the Dark Mark looming above the ashes.  
  
He wept openly, his memory now returning to him fully. His parents, his witch mother and muggle father both alike, they burned at the hands of Death Eaters the same night. Memories he'd long suppressed, emotions he'd long ago put away, flooded back to him as he screamed and sobbed alone in his cold cell.   
  
He wept that whole day, and pressed his face into the hard fabric of the bed as he twisted the matress cover with his fist. His unclipped nails dug into his own flesh, and drops of blood littered the stretched and twisted sheet. He kicked the walls and fell over on the floor. Until the night he slep more, unable to stand the life of the conscious. He woke that night, as yells and light penetrated the dark of the outside corridor. He wondered vaguely what it was, but never realized that his returned memory had meant a difference in the dementors of his Azkaban. He couldn't find the strength to worry about anything anymore, he merely took this new event in and continued to stare at the damp stone walls, blankly, and waiting for the time to pass.  
  
Yells sounded nearer him than they had ever before. His corridor shone more brightly as torches lit it, and cages came unlocked. These sounds were greeted by more yells as prisoners near his own cell joined a widening crowd. Shadows fell over the walls approaching his cell, and he looked away from the cell doors. Whoever it was would have to leave him alone. He had no wish of escape, only to rot with his amplified memories and die alone, to meet again with those he'd lost.   
  
The sound of sliding and clashing metal pierced the silence of his cell as the door opened slowly. As it clanged shut, a voice he'd heard before touched his ears, making them feel raw as reality hit him, as he realized that his sense of hearing had not been exercised this fully in a long time.  
  
"Hello, Sturgis." a cold and malevolent drawl slid across his eardrums, shocking his system and causing him to shudder.  
  
"M..Mal..." Sturgis' lips were cracked and his voice could not find itself.  
  
"Yes...you know me. The dementors have had quite an effect on you..." A sneer accompanied these words.  
  
Sturgis found his voice as another word surfaced in his memory - Phoenix. "Order..." he croaked, shuffling to his feet and finding his legs surprisingly intact and strong. "The Order will have you."  
  
"Really, Sturgis? The Order...has already had me. And they've lost me. Now they've lost you too."  
  
A bright green tunnel of light erupted, dissolving Sturgis' vision. He numbly felt his body crumple against the stone floor, but his vision remained a snapshot of Lucius Malfoy's face. It dissolved slowly to reveal his wife once more...and his daughter laughing happily and running to him.  
  
.....  
  
The cold air momentarily warmed as the jet of green light left Lucius Malfoy's wand. He lowered it as Sturgis Podmore fell dead. A silence had permeated the group of men and women with him, but Lucius was not in the mood for respectful, or awkward, silences. He turned swiftly ands trode through them down the corridor from whence they came.  
  
"One less filthy Order of the Phoenix mudblood to bother us," he drawled briskly, as the group of imprisoned death eaters began to follow. 


	2. Strange Goings On at Number Four

1. Strange Goings On At Number Four  
  
The sun was swimming low over the treetops of Magnolia Crescent, and orange - tinted clouds floated over it's visage. Privet Drive was a semi-circle of primly kept, immaculate green lawns and shiny, waxed cars; but not everything there was so normal and routine. An upstairs window of Number Four stayed wide open constantly, and normally featured either a snowy white owl or an unkempt looking boy peering out of it. At this moment, Harry Potter leaned out of it and watched as the now reddish sun sunk behind the trees and houses of nearby Magnolia Crescent. He sighed and returned to his bed, slumping down to sit among the scattered letters and assorted newspaper clippings from the Daily Prophet.   
  
Some were forwarded to him from assorted witches and wizards he'd never met; proclaiming how they'd stood by him when nobody else had, these people he'd never seen or heard from before. Some had names on them he'd heard before, like the dozen or so from Mrs. Doris Crockford, a woman he'd recently remembered shaking hands with when he'd first stepped into the Leaky Cauldron. Even more still came from friends, He'd had a constant communication with the Order of the Phoenix - His favorite letters were from Remus Lupin, a former teacher at Hogwarts and friend of his father's, who also happened to be a werewolf. He also enjoyed the enthusiastic and encouraging letter from Nymphadora Tonks, who was likely to punch anyone who called her Nymphadora.  
  
Of course, most of his letters came from his best friends, Ron and Hermione. Though summer holiday had only begun three weeks ago, he'd already recieved dozens of letters from them. They wrote at least once a day, and sometimes twice if interesting things were happening - he gathered from the letters that Hermione's injury was getting much better; she had only 2 potions a day now to heal wounds the Death Eater named Dolohov had inflicted on her. Ron had recovered completely, though he still had ropey, linear scars on his arms. They provided as much support for Harry as they could... and he truly appreciated their effort. At the beginning of the summer he'd felt pounded, and wanted nothing more than a break to think to himself and be alone. Now that he'd had nothing but an extreme dose of this treatment, he found himself longing for his friends once more.  
  
The death of Sirius Black, Harry's godfather, had left him with little will to go on with anything. He'd lost more than a friend, strange as it felt, it was more as if he'd lost a brother. Sirius was a concoction for Harry - he was a friend, a brother, an uncle, a mentor, and a confidant. Harry felt depressed after his death, in a way that could never be described with human words. His feelings were sufficient only for thought, and though he understood them and he knew that his friends understood them, it was simply impossible to explain.   
  
After his arrival at Number Four, he'd opened his trunk to take some things. After reaching the bottom, he'd found a broken mirror. Just weeks ago he'd taken this mirror, a communication mirror he'd received as a gift from Sirius, and thrown it inside in disgust, shattering it's glass. He felt remorse for it now, as it seemed nearly as important as a memory than it had as a tool. He'd cleaned it up completely, throwing away the glass, but keeping the frame. He had opened his album, a gift from Hagrid when he was in his first year, and quickly found the photo of Sirius, from his parent's wedding.  
  
With a pair of scissors he carefully cut out the picture, keeping in the shape of the mirror's frame. He then placed the picture of Sirius in the mirror frame, and wrapped it in newspaper to place it back in the trunk, where it belonged.  
  
Remembering the mirror again Harry now got up from his bed. He opened his trunk, which was by now nearly empty, it's contents strewn about the room carelessy, in Harry's lethargic lack of care. He unwrapped the mirror carefully, and stared once again at the picture of his godfather. Sirius smiled back up at him, and he could just imagine his parents and Sirius laughing together, that laugh of Sirius's so much like a bark. He placed the mirror carefully back in it's wrappings, and resolved to go downstairs and find something to do with himself.  
  
As he passed the hall outside the kitchen, he noticed the cords hanging out of the wall. Although it was so unlike Aunt Petunia to leave anything untouched or out of place, she had left this alone. And it wasn't teh only place. After Vernon Dursley had heard Arthur Weasly speak of what he called "fellytones", he'd resolved the moment he got home to tear theirs stright fromt he wall. He'd given Harry, nor any of the other Dursleys any explanation for this, though it was understood that this was because Harry's friends might call. Harry didn't complain to the Order about this incident, though they'd told him to alert them if any mistreatment had occured. Harry couldn't explain it even to himself, but he hadn't felt particularly in the mood to talk to people much.  
  
As he walked through the kitchen, he found Aunt Petunia making stew for supper. She shrieked when she saw him, but in award winning fashion, recovered and quickly stared down at her stirring, refusing to acknowledge his presence further. Harry walked on without comment or notice of her, either.   
  
Harry finally emerged into the living room, where Uncle Vernon occupied his favorite perch in an armchair. Though Harry noticed his eyes dart toward him for a second, Vernon Dursley gave no other notice of Harry's arrival. Harry decided on the spot that he should say something.  
  
"Er, my er - friends will probably be coming to get me within a few days," he said, thinking of anything he could to make conversation. "And, I just er, thought you should know when they arrive."  
  
Uncle Vernon made no attempt to answer, he simply continued to stare into the television.  
  
"Because you know, they could find any number of ways to get here, we can't quite be sure."  
  
Again Vernon sat in stony silence, completely withou the illusion of a man watching television, but rather that of a man who had noticed a snake crawling over his shoes and could not stand to move.  
  
"Did you hear me?"  
  
"Mmmf!" Uncle Vernon grunted throatily, his face now turning red as he continued to stare at the television, which was now featuring a ladies' products commercial.  
  
Harry began to trudge back upstairs, his interaction with another human having gone expectedly, but not leaving him feeling how he wanted to. He could not even play with Hedwig, she's left during a hunt several nights ago and had yet to return. He collapsed back on his bed, resolving to spend the evening making shapes from the bumps in the ceiling. Just as he was imagining the bumps as a great black dog, a snow-white blur swept into his room, with the rustling, feathery sound of autumn leaves scraping against themselves.  
  
As Hedwig landed with a fresh letter for him, Harry leapt to his feet and met her at the desk, where her cage sat. It was heavily crusted and badly in need of cleaning, with he subconsciously vowed to do in appreciation of his pet. After rubbing her head affectionately, she nibbled his finger, signifying her gratitude. He carefully untied the letter, and unfolded the yellowed parchment.  
  
Harry,  
  
The Order is planning on taking you here to us! We aren't...based in the same place anymore, they've moved the Order into the ministry itself. And you aren't going to be going there, either, they are taking you here to the Burrow, in our care. It's... a bit different than you remember it, see the Order has put up various protections here. It's strange, when you are inside, it's kind of like being underground. I don't know, it's hard to explain. Anyway, an advance guard should be arriving at your place tonight. Sorry I couldn't tell you before, mate, but they really wont let us say much. Even now they are reluctant to let me send this, but Moody gave them the okay and anyone would be crazy to tell Moody he's being reckless. They'll be there tonight, so be ready!  
  
Ron  
  
Harry read the letter over several times. He was going back to the Burrow! He couldn't believe he was getting away from the Dursleys this soon...he'd never been able to escape Number Four so early in the holiday.  
  
As quickly as he could, he stuffed all of his belongings in the trunk. The mirror stayed safely at the bottom, while he wrapped up all the letters and newspaper clipping, safely stowing them inside his album cover. He finished within minutes, and laid back down excitedly on his bed. He'd never felt such a quick rush of gratitude for Ron and his friends. He felt an urge to tell Uncle Vernon to expect them that night, but realized he no longer had the urge to speak to the Dursleys about anything.  
  
He spent the next hour reading one of his schoolbooks, though he wasn't even sure which one, since he'd grabbed one randomly. He hadn't read more than a sentence at most, because he could only think of the Burrow, and spending a summer holiday there with the Weasleys. He wondered how Fred ang George, the twins, were doing with their jokeshop, which seemed to have been quite successful last he'd heard, since he last saw them wearing expensive dragon skin jackets. He wondered how Mrs. Weasley was doing, if she still had nightmares about her sons' deaths. He wondered if Percy had apologized yet, now that it had become known that Dumbledore wasn't crazy.  
  
He looked at his clock, and wondered when the guard would arrive. Just as he thought this, he heard Aunt Petunia shriek downstairs. He raced down the first flight, pausing on the landing. As he peered over the ledge and down below, he saw his Aunt and Uncle with their arms raised, as if to ward off a burglar. 


End file.
